House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast,” Tharion was saying, a hand on his abs. He wore only tight black aquatic leggings, equipped along the thighs with holsters for knives. No shoes or shirt. If he needed to shift into his mer form, he’d said upon arriving at Bryce’s place this morning, he didn’t want to lose much.

Tharion’s timing had been unfortunate—he’d arrived at the apartment right after Hunt. Bryce was already propped up on the counter, gripping Hunt’s shoulders while he lazily licked up her neck. Tharion’s knock on the door was … unwelcome.

That would all have to wait. But his mate had gotten him out of the barracks—he’d repay her generously tonight.

Bryce now patted Tharion’s bare shoulder. “I’m weirdly satisfied that a mer can get airsick, considering how many of us suffer from seasickness.”

“He’s still green, too,” Tharion said, pointing to Hunt, who grinned weakly.

But Tharion went back to idly observing the cave around them. Perhaps too idly. Hunt knew Tharion’s main objective: get Pippa to talk about Emile. Whether that interrogation would be friendly was up to the mer captain.

Ruhn murmured, “Incoming.”

They all turned toward the cargo ship to see Cormac striding over to them. Still pale and drained—Hunt had no idea how he’d get them all out of here when this was over.

But Hunt tensed at the fury simmering off Cormac. “What’s up?” Hunt said, eyeing the cave interior beyond Cormac. Tharion’s attention drifted that way as well, his long body easing into a crouch, ready to spring into action.

Cormac shook his head and said, “Pippa’s already got her claws in them. They’re all eating out of her hand. The weapons are hers, and she’s now in charge of the Valbaran front.”

Tharion frowned, but scanned the space behind the Avallen Prince. “Anything about Emile or Sofie?”

“No. She didn’t say a word about them, and I couldn’t risk asking. I don’t want her to know we’re on the hunt as well.” Cormac paced. “A confrontation about Emile in front of the others would likely lead to bloodshed. We can only play along.”

“Any chance of isolating her?” Tharion pressed.

Cormac shook his head. “No. Believe me, she’ll be on her guard as much as we are. You want to drag her off for questioning, you’re going to have a battle on your hands.”

Tharion swore, and Bryce patted his knee in what Hunt could only guess was an attempt at consolation.

Cormac faced Hunt. “Athalar, you’re up.” He jerked his head to the massive ship. “They’re unloading the new prototype right now.”

In silence, they followed the prince, Hunt keeping close to Bryce. The rebels—all in black, many with hats or masks on—stared at them as they passed. None of them smiled. One man grumbled, “Vanir pricks.”

Tharion blew him a kiss.

Ruhn growled.

“Play nice,” Bryce hissed at her brother, pinching his side through his black T-shirt. Ruhn batted her away with a tattooed hand.

“Real mature,” Hunt muttered as they halted at the foot of the loading platform. Ruhn subtly flipped him off. Bryce pinched Hunt’s side, too.

But Tharion let out a low whistle as four rusty mech-suits emerged from the ship’s hold, each carrying the corner of a massive box.

It looked like a metal sarcophagus, carved with the insignia of the Asteri: seven stars around SPQM. The humans piloting the old-model mech-suits didn’t so much as glance to the side as they carried the box down the ramp, the ground thudding beneath the machines’ massive feet.

“Those suits are for battle, not manual labor,” Tharion murmured.

“Twelve-gunners. They’re the strongest of the human models.” Hunt inclined his head to the twin double guns at the shoulder, the guns on each of the forearms. “Six visible guns, six hidden ones—and one of those is a cannon.”

Bryce grimaced. “How many of these suits do the humans have?”

“A few hundred,” Cormac answered. “The Asteri have bombed enough of our factories that these suits are all old, though. The imperial prototype that they’re carrying could give us new technology, if we can study it.”

Bryce murmured, “And no one is worried about giving this stuff over to trigger-happy Pippa?”

“No,” Cormac replied gravely. “Not one of them.”

“But they’re cool with us examining the suit?” Bryce asked.

“I told them Athalar would have some insight into how they’re constructed.”

Hunt clicked his tongue. “No pressure, huh?” He suppressed the memory of Sandriel’s face, her cruel amusement as she watched what he’d done to the suits on her orders.

The suits and their pilots reached the concrete quay, and someone barked an order that dispersed the various rebels working the docks until only a unit of twelve rebels—all humans—lingered behind Hunt and the others.

Hunt liked that about as much as the fact that they were here at all, on a fucking rebel base. Officially aiding Ophion. He kept his breathing slow and steady.

The unit of rebels marched past them, climbing into the vessel, and the mech-pilots stomped off, leaving the sarcophagus behind. A heartbeat later, a human female, brown-haired and freckled, emerged from the shadows beside the boat.